3 TRIES
by foxdvd
Summary: Just how bad is Don Flack affected by what he saw in "Happily Never After"?
1. First try

**A/N:**For some strange reason, I can't quite shake the image of sad Flack after having his first love (read: food) displayed in such… uh… unfavorable light. Can't say I can't relate: I haven't eaten chicken since I witnessed how Pio-Pio and Cloc-Cloc met their untimely (IMHO) death in order to be served as main dish at my grandmother's birthday brunch when I was 5…

X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X

"I don't think I'm ever gonna be the same again…"

Flack's words rang in his ears over and over again. He had made a huge manly effort not to throw up in front of Stella right there at the carts court, and he was proud of his self-control. He really was. But that was then and this was now and right now he was having a very hard time controlling his stomach's contents… what little was of them. He was sitting at his favorite dinner, his favorite bagel sandwich sitting in front of him, tempting him, calling to him… but every time he picked it up, images from earlier that day flashed in front of his eyes.

Flack was a rational man. As a rational man he knew that street food was not the most hygienic of choices when it came to feeding oneself. As a rational man, he also knew that food prepared in restaurants had to adhere to strict codes of cleanliness and the cook knew better than to mess with New York's finest. But his rationality didn't seem to be able to govern his gag reflex, and his gag reflex was furiously working overtime at that moment.

After a third attempt, and with a discouraged sigh, Flack pushed his food aside and contented himself with sipping his iced tea. His BOTTLED iced tea. He hated the damn thing with a passion, as he found it far too sweet even for his taste, but he wasn't willing to risk the chance of another fat rat cavorting around the ice that ended up in his glass. Waiving to the waitress, he asked for the check and the food to go. Maybe, just maybe, if he waited until he was practically starving, his mind would stop playing games with him.

Several hours later, Detective Jennifer Angell was urgently called into the bullpen at the precinct. His coworkers had summoned her in hopes she'd be able to tame Flack some, or at least, figure out what kind of bee had gotten under his bonnet, as his temper was wrecking havoc among the detectives.

If foul mood could be measured in terms of colored clouds, the one surrounding Flack would have been a very dark one, almost completely hiding him from sight, Angell mused. She couldn't understand why he was in such a bad mood; from what she'd heard, he and Stella had gotten their guy and cleared up a very high profile case, so logic would dictate him to be in a cheerful disposition. Perhaps his perp had been a runner? Angell knew Flack hated those types, as he usually ended up getting dirty and his dry cleaning bill was already murderous as it was.

"Fuck!"

The expletive caught her by surprise. Flack wasn't one to swear easily, being almost gentlemanly in his choice of vocabulary. Angell was starting to fear that whatever was bothering Flack was something really, really bad.

"Don?" she asked timidly, keeping a safe distance between them, just in case.

He didn't even bother turning around. "Whatcha want Jenn? I'm busy, can't you see?"

Jenn thought that "bother" was perhaps too mild an explanation, and the truth was that her friend was really upset about something. She decided to press on.

"Is there something bothering you, Don?"

"Is that how you made detective, Angell? By asking stupid questions like that? Or was it your honed observation skills that led you to that conclusion?"

Now it was her turn to be pissed.

"You know what, Flack? Screw you. Here I was, idiot me, worrying about you, trying to figure out a way to help you with something that's obviously gotten you in a rotten mood, and all I get is attitude…"

Flack finally turned around to look at her. He opened his mouth to give her a piece of his mind and then snapped it close again. She wasn't responsible for his present state of mind, and he was taking it off on her. A quick apology was in order, quick cover up work and get out of there ASAP following close behind.

Best laid plans, however… He opened his mouth again and blurted out a pitiful "I'm hungry!" before he could stop himself.

Jenn looked at him, perplexed. She knew as well as anybody else, if not better, just how Don Flack Jr. felt about food. What she couldn't understand why was, if he was hungry, why wasn't he eating the take-out sandwich sitting conspicuously in the corner of his desk?

"Want me to reheat that for you? Maybe get you a soda as well?" she asked carefully, weighing his response.

"NO! You don't get it! I can't eat… because of the rat… I saw… a rat… I saw the street vendors and their carts and how they handled the food… and the rat there… and the man sneezed on top of it… and there was dirt everywhere… and did I mention there was a fat rat sitting there nibbling on leftovers?"

Jenn looked at him, trying to process the information, carefully avoiding forming a mental picture of what he was saying lest she ended up like him. She could understand how such an event could traumatize a man who loved food more than life itself and whose personal relationship with street vendors was the kind of stuff legends are made of.

"Should I call the department's shrink? Maybe Andy will be able to…"

"No!" he interrupted, "I don't want Andy's help. It's no good, I simply cannot see food the same way ever again. Trust me, I've tried everything and it's not working. Nothing works! I'm gonna starve to death…"

"Don", she tried her best soothing voice, the one she reserved for potential suicidal jumpers atop tall buildings, standing on tiny ledges. "You need to stop thinking about it… you need to let it go. Just because you saw something unpleasant today it doesn't mean that all the food in New York is unpleasant…"

He interrupted her. "Did you know there are 6 rats for every human being in Manhattan? And they don't feed only on leftovers in smelly trashcans… oh no… they actively seek food whenever they can find it and they never ever rest. Can you imagine it, Jenn? A whole family of rats living off MY food and MY leftovers and prancing their dirty fat selves all over the places where I eat…"

He left the idea unfinished, and shuddered. Jenn looked at him with compassion, wondering what would be the best way to help him before he became a real danger for any unsuspecting suspect who happened to get on his bad side before Don had something to eat.

"Come" she said finally, taking him by the hand and dragging him behind her, as several dozen eyes followed them, their owners holding their breaths, hoping against hope that the whole "Flack-is-pissed-cause-he-can't-eat" ordeal be done and over with so they could carry on living without fear. Jenn pulled Don to the third floor, where a vast array of vending machines lined the wall separating the stairs from the elevators.

"Here", she said, firmly. "I don't see any rats in here, do you?" Don shook his head. "And all that food is wrapped, isn't it?" He nodded again. "So there is no way a rat, big or small, got anywhere near it, is there?" He opened his mouth to protest, his mind going back to the time BEFORE it was packaged, but Jenn held out her hand to stop his protest. "We'll start with something simple. And since you haven't had anything to eat in over 8 hours, the fist thing we need to do is get your sugar levels up."

Without another word, Jenn slid a couple of coins in the slot, punched a couple of numbers and produced a small package of chocolate covered raisins. Ripping the package open, she placed several pieces on Don's hand.

Don took one look at them and his stomach hurled once more. "Rat turd" he mumbled nauseated before dashing for the nearest bathroom. Jenn watched him go, sighed, and proceeded to pick up the chocolate bits from the floor. Dropping them into the waste basket, she headed for the men's room. Knocking softly on the door, she pushed it open.

"Don?" she called tentatively.

Jenn carefully peeked inside just in time to see Don splashing water on his face. She had no way of knowing if he had thrown up or not, but judging by the look on his face, it made no difference whether he had or not… the expression "death warmed over" suddenly popped into her mind and she had to agree that her friend did in fact look like that.

Don approached the female detective with certain trepidation. He was starting to really worry about the situation. What if his mind refused to let him eat ever again? What was he going to do? He wasn't rail skinny, but he didn't have much extra weight to be loosing in an impromptu hunger strike. He figured he had ten, fifteen pounds tops, he could stand to loose before people noticed something was wrong. Twenty pounds, and his health would start to be compromised. He wondered if these were the kind of thoughts bulimics and anorexics had running through their minds… it wasn't as if he'd made a rational decision to stop eating, dammit! His stomach just seemed to have a mind of its own…

"Come one", Jenn told him, as she gently led him out of the room. "Let's tell the brass you're heading home. I'll drive you there."

Don nodded, gratefully. Home seemed like a very good idea. He certainly was in no position to be dealing with work right now. He'd shower and get a good night's sleep and by morning he'll be a good as new. He decided that first thing tomorrow he was going to buy the biggest box of sugar donuts and bring it into the bullpen as an apology to all those he had chewed their heads off during this God-awful day. He quietly waited for Jenn by the door as she explained to their supervisor, and he followed her to her car without saying much. The ride home was equally silent, each lost in their own thoughts.

Once they got to his place, he turned to say thanks, but one look from Angell made him think better about it. She rode the elevator all the way into his place, and sat patiently in the living room, leafing through a magazine and surfing the channels while he took a quick shower. He came out looking slightly better and Jenn allowed her hopes to rise, at least momentarily.

"Do you have anything to eat in your fridge? From scratch, I mean." She asked when she saw him come back into the living room.

"My sister came by yesterday and dropped off some crock-pot stew" he replied. He seemed to ponder his next question carefully. "Would you like to stay for dinner? It's the least I can do after all you've done for me…"

"Don't mention it, Don. You'd do the same for me if the situation were reversed… although I'm sure you'd be rubbing plenty more salt on my wound…" Angell smiled as she said this, and was relieved to see a hint of a smile on his face. "I appreciate the invite, darling, but believe it or not I have a date tonight…"

"A date?" Don's eyebrow reached mid-forehead. "Really?"

"Yes, a date. You know what they are, don't you?"

"Funny, Angell. Who's the brave guy?" he asked.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd be offended... what do you mean "brave"? Am I that daunting?" she asked, good-naturedly.

"Does he know about your brothers?"

"No…"

"I rest my case."

Angell threw a pillow towards him in a playful manner and went into the kitchen. She saw Flack pale a bit as he approached the fridge, and for a second she wondered if Ray would mind much if she gave him a rain check and stayed with Don instead, making sure he ate something.

"Don't" he said, as if sensing her thoughts. "Go to your date. I'll be fine. See?" and as if to prove a point, he opened the fridge and took out a crystal container filled with the homemade meal. His smile faltered, and he quickly tried to cover it up, but not before she'd seen the look of disgust that crossed his face at the sight of the food.

Jenn looked at him and considered what to say. In the end, she chose no to say anything, hoping that he'd end up reheating a tiny portion. She was sure that once he started eating he wouldn't stop until he had stuffed himself silly, and there was enough food in the container to keep him satisfied for the night. Putting on a too bright smile, more for his peace of mind than hers, she approached him and kissed him goodnight, and cheerfully let herself out of his place. Once the door had closed behind her, the smile vanished and she held her breath. The crashing sound from the kitchen came before she'd reached twenty-three. Sighing, she headed for the elevator and took out her cell phone. Things needed higher-up intervention, and they needed it fast.

"We have a problem" she said to the person who answered her call.

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**A/N:** This was intended as a one-shot, but….oh well, you know how it is.


	2. Second try

**A/N: **Thank you so much for all the nice reviews you've given this piece. My deepest apologies for not replying personally but health has not been all that as of lately…

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"Just be careful, things might be… uh… messy."

Stella took a look at her surroundings, hardly believing her eyes. "Messy is an understatement!" she thought, taking in the scene before her. Someone had obviously taking a whole plate of stew and thrown it against the wall, and then proceeded to do the same with every other food item in the fridge.

She heard the shower running in the bathroom and she guessed Flack was cleaning himself up. Sighing, she went to the hall's closet to get a broom and started sweeping all the mess into a dustbin, and then into the garbage pail. That left all the greasy stuff adhered to the walls and floor, but Stella's saintly nature had a limit: Flack would have to scrub that himself; she'd just made sure he wasn't going to cut himself with a shard of glass or would end up throwing up all over the place once more.

She should have known the whole vendor case was bound to get him; hell, she'd even suggested a psych evaluation! But she knew the man's appetite and she hadn't expected it to be halted by a rat…

The bathroom door opened just then and Stella was about to walk down the hall to fetch her queasy partner when a sudden thought stopped her. She'd taken for granted that Flack would be fully clothed, but what if, just like she did, he only came out wrapped in a towel? Fishing her mind out of the gutter and snatching her hear out of fantasyland, she decided to let her presence be known from the relative safety of the kitchen.

"Flack?" she called out, trying to sound cheerful.

Flack, who was about to drop the towel and slide up a pair of sweatpants, had a mild heart attack. Knowing Angell the way he did, he KNEW she was not going to let sleeping dogs lie, and he also KNEW he hadn't fooled her for a second into thinking he'd eaten the stew. But did she have to call Stella, of all people? And come to think of it, how had Stella gotten into his apartment? Then he remembered that after the Irish mob case Mac had put together a "master" key ring holding a copy of everyone's places, which he kept in his office in case of an emergency. He guessed Stella would find a way to call his present state an "emergency" and had taken the keys and allowed herself in after knocking a couple of times.

"Are you okay in there, Don?"

Her voice seemed closer to his door, and for a moment he panicked. Stella was going to walk in on him naked! A shiver ran down his spine and panic gave way to something far more wantonly wicked… Stella walking in on him naked suddenly seemed like a sinfully delicious option. His stomach growling brought reality back with a crash.

"Be right out, Stell" he called out, slightly defeated. Chastising himself for having improper thought about his coworker at improper times, although come to think of it, there wasn't really a proper time to be having lewd thoughts about long legs and soft curls and deep cleavages, was there? He put on his sweatpants and slid on a sweatshirt, and forwent all kinds of underwear, a small walk on the wild side, if you pleased.

He exited his room to find Stella sitting on his tobacco sofa, leafing through last month's pay per view options and for a moment he thought that it had been months since female hands had touched his magazines or his couch (or him, for that matter) and that now two different pairs had done so in the last three hours. He just prayed the magazine wasn't too dingy or that it was one of those months when he hadn't scribbled anything on the side or underlined some soft-core porn showing…

Stella looked at his attire and nodded approvingly. "The water should be hot by now" she said, rather cryptically.

"Water?" he repeated, not sure he'd understood.

"Yes. Water. You're going to need hot water to scrub the floor and the walls. I already took care of the fridge…" she replied with an angelic smile.

"What??? Oh man, no! Oh shit, Stell…." Flack had managed to efficiently put the mess in his kitchen out of his mind. It had been liberating to smash everything in sight, and he hadn't stopped to consider what a pain in the butt it was going to be to clean it afterwards…

"Don't "oh-shit" me, Don. You're not going to weasel your way out of this one." She replied calmly, her attention back to the pages in front of her. "And you better step on it, detective. The grocery delivery boy will be here in half an hour, give or take."

Flack knew her well enough to know the argument was over… well, actually, it hadn't even been an argument to begin with, and he wisely kept his mouth shut and his comments to himself. Peeking into the kitchen he saw a bucket sitting atop the stove, and a sponge and some sort of cleaning product God only knew where she'd found in his pantry, sitting next to it on the counter. Carefully removing the pail from the fire, he sank to his knees and proceeded to clean the remains of his tantrum. He found, much to his amazement, that hot water did indeed made the task a lot easier, and he began to think that he might finish in time for… well, for whatever Stella had in store for him.

"One would think that after so many years they'd give "Deep Throat" a break… unless you consider it to be a classic of sorts, like "Debbie Does Dallas" or something…"

Stella's comment, done in perfect conversational tone, nearly made Flack overturn the bucket. He frantically searched his memory trying to remember, in vain, if he'd made any sort of notations on that particular page. He saved the notion of Stella talking porn movies for later, for the privacy of his room, but the whole thing boggled his mind.

"Oh, wow, "Blazing Saddles"! Darn, they showed it yesterday… I do love Mel Brooks, don't you?"

"Uh-huh"

"You don't mind me talking while you work, do you?" she asked again.

Flack looked up to see her standing on the doorway, reclined against the frame, one leg crossed behind the other, arms loosely crossed in front of her, pay per view magazine still held firmly in her hand. She looked like one of those Greek statuettes seen at museums, or at Disney's "Hercules" movie, and for a moment he felt the urge to crawl to her and worship at her feet. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and Stella took that for an answer.

"Good. I'm assuming talking movies is a good subject. You seem to like your movies; otherwise I don't see the point in wasting good money on paying for the Pay Per View service…"

"There's always sports, you know…" Flack commented, engrossed on the fridge door in order to avoid getting trapped in the siren call her legs presented.

"You're such a man, Don" Stella said, before turning away from the door, leaving Flack wondering whether being "such a man" was a good or a bad thing in Ms. Bonasera's book.

He finished cleaning as the doorbell rang. He put away to bucket and watched, amazed, as Stella opened the door for not one, but two delivery boys, carrying more than half a dozen grocery bags which they placed on the recently scrubbed counters. Stella reached for her handbag, but he stopped her short.

"What are you trying to do?" he asked.

"Well, since I ordered all this without your consent, the least I can do is pay for it," she replied, uncertain as if he was upset or amused.

Don dismissed the notion with a hand wave and turned to the eldest delivery boy. "Tell Mr. Rogers to charge this to my account," he said, as he fished a five dollar bill to tip the boys.

He went back into the kitchen only to find Stella unpacking the bags. It had been a while since he'd seen so much food, so much UNPREPARED food, in his place. He knew how to cook, all Flack men did; he just simply never had the time. In truth, he didn't see the point in cooking just for one, either. Why bother, when in every other corner there was a market that had a frozen goods section filled with microwaveable dinners-for-one ready for eating? The memory of the congealed gravy on top of his favorite mashed potatoes made his stomach churn.

He'd tried eating something twice already, and had failed both times. He sincerely hoped the third time would be the charm. His stomach has aching big time and the last ting he needed right now was to develop an ulcer and become one more Tums-popping cop with a distended belly and a grumpy attitude to go with it.

Flack looked at all the stuff Stella had ordered: pasta, cans of tuna, fresh fruit and vegetables, canned vegetables, eggs, milk, spices… all in all, good stuff. Healthy stuff. Stuff that, wisely put together, made up really yummy stuff, stuff he loved to eat. He eyed a basket of cherry tomatoes, remembered how he used to eat them in one bite and before his mind had a chance to react; his hand was reaching out to them. But then his mind took over again, telling him rats and other kinds of vermin could have played on top of those tiny baskets and the veggies were surely contaminated.

Noticing the grimace and how his hand had stop mid-air, Stella decided to come to his rescue.

"Here Don. These tomatoes are ripe and ready to be eaten and I'm willing to bet they're juicy and sweet. All you need to do is wash them in the antibacterial solution I got for you and you'll be eating in no time at all."

She pushed him towards the sink, placing the small bottle of cleansing product in his hand. Flack thought it was simple enough, logical enough. Wash away all traces of rat, rinse and eat. Simple! He carefully read the instructions in the back of the antibacterial solution: fill a bowl with water, add two drops and drop in whatever it was that you were going to wash. Allow it to sit there for a couple of minutes, rinse and enjoy. Really, really very simple. Flack followed the instructions and watched the little tomatoes as they bobbed around the bowl. He kept a close eye on the water; was it getting darker? Murkier? Dirtier? He swore he saw something peel off form one of the tomatoes and slowly sink to the bottom of the bowl.

He waited five minutes to make sure that all traces of bacteria were gone from his prized cherry tomatoes. He then proceeded to rinse one by one, carefully rubbing the surface to remove all traces of the chemical cleanser. When he was done, he took one of the round vegetables in his hands and closely inspected it. He decided that he'd be better off if he took off the skin, and proceeded to do so. Afterwards, he convinced himself that it wouldn't really hurt if he scrubbed the pulp of the tomato JUST ONCE, just to make sure…

When Stella looked at him, Flack had his hands covered in squeezed tomato. His face wore a pained, hungry expression, but his eyes were wild and desperate. She gently washed his hands and dried them, and sat him in the chair next to the counter.

"Close your eyes", she directed softly, and he did as told. "Now tell me what you see".

"I see the rat… from the food vendors court… and I see all kinds of rats and mice sitting on top of the tomatoes. I see the baby rats playing all over them, and the rats that are too old to look for other kind of food, I see those nibbling on the tomatoes. And they're everywhere, Stell. Everywhere! Restaurants and markets and even in my own home… I know it's ridiculous, cause I've never seen a rat inside my place or my sister's place so there's no way a rat could have been near the stew she sent me… but in my mind I see them and I just freeze". He opened his eyes and Stella thought she could see the suffering and the begging in them. "I'll never be able to look at food the same way ever again… it's like… it's like food is now the greatest turn off there's ever been!"

Stella's heart went out for Flack. For a man for whom food was more necessary than air itself, to be put off by the idea of eating was indeed a traumatic experience. She wanted to help him, but how? She looked around the room, searching for some sort of answer, when her eyes fell on the Pay Per View magazine she'd left on the breakfast bar, next to her purse. An idea formed in her head. Could she…? She discarded it as quickly as it had come, but it kept nagging at the back of her head, unwilling to let go, until she was certain that, if there was any other solution close at hand, it simply was eluding her, and that helping Don was certainly worth the risk.

"Do you trust me?" she asked, softly.

"What?" he asked, uncertain if he'd heard her correctly.

"Do you trust me?" she asked once more, starting to second guess herself.

"You know better than to ask that, Stell. I trust you with my life" he answered, sincerely.

Stella felt her cheeks glow and something inside her chest expand. "Wait for me here" she said, and left the kitchen.

Noises coming form his own bedroom alerted Flack to the fact that Stella Bonasera was going through his closet. Not that he minded much, but for the life of him he couldn't fathom what the hell she was looking for. When she finally returned, she was carrying the most God-awful tie he owned, and that was a huge statement. Not only was it old, which clearly showed in its width, but it had a hideous pattern of polka dots and stripes. Nobody in the family would ever dare say that Great Aunt Selma had taste when it came to picking up ties… Flack should know, half his tie wardrobe had come with a congratulatory tag bearing her name.

"You're going to sit on that chair and I'm going to blindfold you. I'll tell you what to do as we go along" she instructed. She seemed to consider things for a moment, and then added, as an afterthought: "You'd better take off your shirt before we start."

Flack looked at her for a long time, trying to figure out what was going on inside that beautiful head of hers. Deciding it was fruitless to do so, he shrugged his shoulders and, grabbing the hem of the t-shirt, he pulled it off, dropping it on the counter closer to the chair.

Stella had expected to see his ever present white wife-beater and had to bit her lower lip to suppress a gasp when she was greeted by the large expanse of male naked chest as the shirt was withdrawn. Don might not go to the gym to play with weights, but he sure kept fit. My, oh my, he sure did. And it showed. No six-pack there, but no love-handles either. The scarring that crisscrossed his left side, the defined chest muscles with just enough body hair to scream male, the dark pink nipples… Stella was thrown back to her childhood, when she stood outside candy shops looking longingly in, but not allowed to touch… or taste.

Her musings were cut short by Flack sitting down on the chair. He crossed his arms loosely at waist level, stretched his long legs and crossed them at the ankles, and look up at Stella, expectantly. Stella swallowed hard, hoped it had gone unnoticed, and moved in behind him to tie the silky garment around his head, carefully covering his eyes.

"Is that okay?" she asked, testing to see if she'd gotten in right.

"Considering how much I hated doing this as a kid, and the fact that there's no piñata in sight… yeah, I guess you can say it's okay" he deadpanned, hoping snarkiness would cover up nervousness.

He could hear Stella moving about the kitchen, and drawers being opened and closed. He made out the distinctive noise of his electric can opener, and if he heard correctly, he could also hear her working at the cutting board. Then he sensed her moving closer, and heard as she laid down a couple of… dishes? Platters? Trays? next to where he sat. He assumed Stella was going to try and feed him while he was blindfolded, in hopes that "out of sight, out of mind" worked in his case. It sounded farfetched, but he was desperate enough to give anything a try and he talked himself into keeping an open mind towards whatever it was Stella was going to do. He heard Stella sigh, a beautiful noise in his book and one he stashed away in his cherished memories, and mentally prepared himself for what was about to take place.

It took all his self-control not to jump out of the chair when he felt Stella sit on top of him, straddling his lap.

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

**A/N: Ooops! Another one-shot gone wild… me bad! Now I guess I need to write a third chapter… or should I end this here, so everyone can give this the ending they want?**


	3. Third try

**A/N: Sorry for taking so long to update****, but my health has really gotten out of hand lately. Hoping surgery proves to be the definite solution!**

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

Stella held her breath and she marveled at her own brazenness. If Flack felt like it he could slap her with a sexual harassment lawsuit and her career would be over faster than she could finish stating her own name in court.

"Is this okay?" she asked softly.

Flack swallowed hard and nodded. He didn't trust his voice not to betray exactly how very okay his body was with the whole thing. If only his stomach would stop bugging about being hungry…

Feeling more at ease, Stella set out to fulfill her plan. She carefully lifted a small piece of chopped peach from the liquid contents in the bowl and lifted it to his mouth. She rubbed the plump flesh of the fruit against his lips, allowing him to feel the gooey texture of the syrup until he instinctively darted out his tongue to lick it. Stella pulled her hand away, giving him time to get used to tasting something again; hoping the sensuousness of the whole thing would stop his gag reflex for the time being.

He had a vague idea that it had been a fruit (peach, maybe?) she had teased him with, and he could recognize the taste of syrup with no problem. Feeling it on his lips had evoked a million sensory memories: his childhood days at his grandmother's house, tiptoeing into the kitchen and stealing some of the preserves she used to make while they were still warm. The time he'd kissed a girl wearing flavored gloss and finding the taste arousing instead of gross. The first time he'd eaten out a lover, uncertain if he was doing it right, marveling at the taste and the emotions it provoked in him…

Stella moved the peach closer to his mouth again, and this time his tongue was quicker than her hand, quickly sweeping the fruit inside. He moved it inside, allowing his taste buds to explode with the tangy flavor; allowing the membrane alongside his cheeks to marvel at the texture, enjoying the experience of actually looking forward to swallow something and being able to do so.

"More"

His demand caught her by surprise. She hadn't expected her plan to work so well and yet she had hoped it would. Still sitting on his lap, she twisted her body to get a small piece of toast covered with strawberry jam. He was so eager to taste something again that his mouth sought the food, too impatient to be willing to allow her to tease him. His eagerness, however, startled her, and a couple of drops of jam ended up on her collar bone.

"Damn" she murmured, looking around for something to clean herself up.

"What happened?" asked Flack, swallowing his piece of toast, that to him felt like a piece of Heaven.

"I got some jam on me…" she said, trying to reach out to the counter behind her for a kitchen cloth.

His hand darted out, holding her still. "Where?" he asked.

"On my collar bone, but I can…"

Before she could finish her sentence, she felt his hands on her shoulders, which wasn't that surprising. What got her nearly jumping out of her own skin was his tongue sweeping the expanse of her collar bone, taking away the offensive jam alongside half her thinking ability. The remaining half had to pull in a double to stop her from moaning and demanding some more herself. The idea, apparently, had it merits, as it was him who muttered "More" against her neck before pulling back, waiting for her to feed him again.

It took Stella a moment or two to catch her breath and get her mind back on track enough to consider her next course of action. Should she pretend that he just hadn't licked her or should she act accordingly? And what should she feed him next? There was the salty cracker with some butter on it, the slice of bologna rolled up, the slice of apple, the tuna roll? And how should she feed it, whatever she decided it was, to him?

In the end, she decided to keep it simple. Grabbing the slice of apple, she lightly sprinkled it with salt and chili powder, knowing it would bring out the tanginess of the fruit, which would make a nice balance after two sweet treats…

She swore she intended to hand feed him when she took the slice in her hand. Actually, it was his fault she'd changed her mind; if he had kept his hands on his lap instead of wrapping them around her waist… Much later he claimed he felt she was sliding down, and his hands were merely trying to aid her… not that he minded much the turn things had taken, either.

Last minute decision, with the last bits of non X-rated thoughts she could muster, for who knew his thumbs slowly circling the skin between her waist and hips could bring out such vivid carnal images, she decided to grasp the fruit between her teeth. Swiftly crossing her arms behind his neck, she leaned forward, gently nudging his lips with the tip of the slice.

Flack could be many things, but dense when it came to the matters of the flesh (or food for that matter) he wasn't, and he understood the silent invitation when he felt something moist and firm brushing his mouth. His nostrils flared with the smell of apple and juice and salt and chili and… Stella. If he weren't so hungry he'd simply knock the darn thing off her mouth and kiss her already, but his stomach was still calling the shots, although not for long.

He took the tiniest of nips, just enough for his taste buds to explode with the mix, just enough for his face to feel the nearness of this woman who was slowly driving his crazy. He took another one, taking great pains to avoid touching her lips. Food felt good, dear God it did, but if he didn't actually taste HER in the next 15 seconds he was going to die, nourishment be damned.

The next bite and his mouth was on hers. The remaining apple was swallowed whole, for there was no room in there, between them, for it. His tongue was too busy invading her mouth to care for any other taste, his teeth careful as not to bite the tender flesh on her lips… her lips that still had the taste of apple and salt and everything tangy and he was addicted before the first ten seconds had passed. His arms were wrapped around her body, his hands pressing her against him, all of him, the naked expansion of his chest and the swelling urgency of his erection.

But he needed more, and more he would have, and before Stella had a chance to react, he was clumsily getting off the chair, arms still wrapped around each other, mouths still fused to each other and he was headed for his bedroom where he very much intended to feast on her whole body. The constant denial throughout the day, throughout the years of wanting her and not having her, were stoking his actions, giving him all the stamina he needed for the task at hand… and mouth and skin and…

He had acted like a scared child most of the day, allowing his imagination to get the best of him, hiding behind the comforts of a woman who always felt like home to him, and he mentally send a prayer of thanks to his own personal guardian Angell.

He was acting like a horny teen even then, rejoicing on the fact that he was coping a feel, and then some, of the woman he came to associate with everything sacred about love, and he was still in awe that he was actually holding and kissing Stella Bonasera the way he had always dreamed of… albeit rather clumsily at the moment.

But the moment he had her in his bed, he was going to show her just what kind of man he was, the kind of man who was not only in lust but in love and willing to show both to her then and there; just what kind of hunger he needed appeased and that she was the only thing he needed to stay alive.

His stomach's rumbling and protest were a thing of the past, something he'd see to in a couple of hours. If they were too tired to even consider cooking, well God had invented fast food for that… a part of his brain that was quickly shutting down marveled at the fact that the thought of take-out wasn't making him queasy, and he found yet another reason why he should show Stella his appreciation…

The third time had been the charm.

X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X

**A/N: My apologies to those who had been expecting a smut fest (see the big fat T next to Rating?) but the muse is still not up to that kind of emotional turmoil just yet…**


End file.
